“Page forty-two is missing from the police dog admission register,” I said, noticing the ellipsis in the sequence.
“That’s correct,” Gerald said. “Protocol requires a second signature from an official for any physical retrieval of these records. We don’t know who accessed this file.”
“Where are the medical duplicates?” I asked.
“Dr. Marcus keeps the digital backups at the county clinic,” Gerald said. “He doesn’t use the central server.”
I closed the binder, the heavy plastic cover slamming against the metal table.
The county veterinary clinic smelled of isopropyl alcohol and damp cedar shavings.
Dr. Marcus did not look up from his desk when I entered. He held his metal-framed glasses in front of the fluorescent light, wiping the lenses with a small square of blue silk.
“A gap in documentation is rarely indicative of a systemic failure, Commander,” Dr. Marcus said in a neutral and precise tone. “Veterinary record keeping during the administrative transition five years ago was notoriously fragmented.”
“The admission form is missing from the medical file, Marcus,” I said, leaning against his metal cabinet. “The dog has a seven-and-a-half-centimeter surgical scar on his left shoulder that isn’t listed on his enlistment medical file.”
“A superficial laceration,” said Dr. Marcus, adjusting his glasses. “It was deemed to have no impact on her performance. I classified it as a minor injury sustained while grazing during her initial breeding phase.”
“These records do not conform to standard veterinary protocols,” I said.
“The department was undergoing restructuring,” he said, closing his desk drawer with his knee. “There was an oversight. I’ll retrieve the digital copy once the quarterly audit is complete.”
“I need to know who signed the authorization for Delta’s transfer five years ago,” I said.
“The permit is registered with the town hall,” said Dr. Marcus, moving a stack of cardboard folders. “I’m sure the clerk will be able to find it, provided you have the correct application form.”
He picked up a black pen and began filling out a diagnostic chart, ending the conversation without looking up.
In the early afternoon, the sun had broken through the low clouds, making the asphalt of the station parking lot hot and sticky.
Gerald had balanced his sturdy laptop on the hood of my patrol car, the screen reflecting the blue sky.
